And The Damned
by Gongsun Zan
Summary: 46 strangers are told they have to kill each other, if they ever want to go home again. It's a simple game, but what do you do when the pieces don't seem to fit?
1. Introduction

**A Very Short Introduction: **Okay, so this one is going to be a little different. If that's alright with you, you can skip ahead and forget about this little bit here. If not, I guess I owe you a bit of an explanation, so you don't yell at me too hard later.

This is a Battle Royale fic, in the sense that the competition and rules are the same, but in some ways it's not. There are no schoolchildren, for one. Not that I don't like children, but wanted to tell a slightly different story than the norm. Perhaps a better way to describe this fic, would be to call it a thematic crossover between Battle Royale and LOST, with original characters. As for the other differences, I'll let the story speak for itself. Hopefully, it works out. If not, feel free to let me know where you think it went wrong.

As is the norm, I don't own Battle Royale, and this fic is rated M, for excessive violence and profanity.

Here we go.

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**Dramatis Personae:**

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M01: Aida, Kenji

F01: Aristide, Judith

M02: Attenborough, Desmond

F02: Ashcroft, Lisa

M03: Baird, Milo

F03: Beadsman, Nadine

M04: Brannigan, Nick

F04: Callahan, Diana

M05: Daedalus, Ivan

F05: deLint, Madison

M06: Danforth, Martin

F06: Forsythe, Daphne

M07: Dieterling, Roland

F07: Habegger, Abigail

M08: Faraday, Calvin

F08: Holloway, Eleanor

M09: Fitzpatrick, Carmine

F09: Kendall, Serenity

M10: Genoard, Frank

F10: Kwon, Celestine

M11: Gillespie, Vincent

F11: LaGrossa, Parvati

M12: Grant, Lucas 'Maximillian'

F12: Langford, Claire

M13: Hughes, Norton

F13: Moreau, Claudia

M14: Kincaid, Dexter

F14: Navidson, Alex

M15: Lynwood, James

F15: Pascale, Alyssa

M16: Mathison, Keagan

F16: Rawley, Veronica

M17: O'Reily, Paul

F17: Rochefort, Jennifer

M18: Pancamo, Michael 'The Saint'

F18: Saeki, Reika

M19: Redman, Jim

F19: Santiago, Isabella

M20: Russo, Anton

F20: Stevens, Regina 'The Ripper'

M21: Sunderland, Richard

F21: Trintignant, Bridget

M22: Van Patten, Pierce

F22: Wade, Sara

M23: Wrangler, Dmitri

F23: Widmore, Acacia


	2. Hour 01: Requiem, Part 1

**And The Damned**

_A Battle Royale by Gongsun Zan_

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The darkness called out to him, like an old friend awaiting embrace.

Kenji Aida (Male Contestant # 01) swallowed down the urge to run. It churned uneasily in his gut, long past the point of obedience. His legs moved him towards the exit, but they were not quite his. Discipline kept his steps in check, but the pull of the exit was inescapable, inexorable, like a needle drawing a junkie in. His heart was pounding, bass beats heavy in his head. He realized he was trembling, though not from the evening chill.

Smooth stone gave way to dirt and gravel. Harsh florescent light covered the exit, barely penetrating the midnight gloom. Beyond, freedom extended in all directions, enough to give Kenji pause. A flicker of doubt crept up upon his thoughts as he considered his options, costing him a moment – but only a moment – before he began to move again. Winners did not hesitate. He would not hesitate again.

He was the first. The position was entirely administrative, no more, but Kenji saw beyond that. To him, it was prophetic; Fate foreshadowing what was to come. Winning had always come easily enough throughout his life, but those victories paled in comparison to what he was about to achieve. This was the big one, the one that would set him apart from the rest. He would not lose. He couldnot lose.

His confidence edged him on, and for a second Kenji felt himself succumb. His pace quickened. Adrenaline licked at his senses, but he fought it off, emptying his mind. Now was not the time. Clutching his kitbag tight against his chest, he steadied himself and moved further into the darkness, jogging, but holding his calm. Behind him, the light from the bunker grew smaller, until it was reduced to nothing more than a faint glow on the horizon. Occasionally he would turn his head to check if he was being followed, but the light remained steady, unblocked.

A soft beep from his collar told him he had gone far enough. Dropping to his knees, Kenji tore the electronic lock off his kitbag. It cast a hazy blue glow as it fell away, providing just enough light to see by. A quick investigation revealed the usual array – watch, flashlight, map, rations – all in working condition, Kenji observed, but otherwise unremarkable.

He dug further inside in the bag, and he finally found what he was looking for. Yes, Kenji reflected as he lifted it up. Fate's involvement was undeniable now. The future bore no other possibilities other than his win.

A smile spread across his face.

Kenji shut his bag, but when he stood up once more, it was with his prize in hand: a Smith & Wesson Model 10, sleek, silver, and fully loaded.

And so the game began.

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**Hour 01: Requiem, Part 1**

_46 Contestants Remain_

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At first there was nothing.

In her vision, darkness reigned, but it was more than that, more than just an absence of light. It was deeper, more absolute, as though it had swallowed all of reality and her consciousness with it. Her mind reached out, seeking meaning or memory, but failed. There was only the dark. There was nothing but the dark. There was – no. There was something else. It tugged at the edge of the shroud, threatening to rip it away. A note, barely noticeable at first, but rising in pitch and intensity as it rippled through the fabric of the void, rising higher and higher in orchestral crescendo–

Acacia Widmore (Female Contestant # 23) snapped awake to the deafening roar of _Verdi's Requiem: Dies Irae_. Confusion struck first. She tried to cover her ears, but her hands would not move. They were locked down; twin metal restraints binding them to a steel table…what? This was not her room. She jerked her head up, and her surroundings rushed in: at least forty others, men, women, none of them familiar, all of them chained down to their own individual table, screaming, shouting, steel collars around their neck, and suddenly she was very aware of the tight band around her throat, not quite choking her but enough to make its presence continually known.

Panic stirred in her gut and threatened to spew forth, but she fought it down, refusing to let her emotions take control. Instead of trying to take in everything at once, she drew her focus inward, cutting herself off from the world. Stay calm. Rationalize. It was how she had survived in the past. It would be how she would survive now.

Her breathing slowed at last. When she opened her eyes, the scene was still the same, but her restraints seemed less claustrophobic now, the music less threatening. Looking about once more, she examined the room she was in. She was sitting at the far end of a perfectly aligned arrangement of desks and chairs, six rows of seven, plus an extra desk at each corner, all occupied. Slate grey walls rose all around, featureless, save for a chalk-stained blackboard at the far end of the room. A projector hung from the ceiling, coated in dust. Only a few of the lights functioned; what little light they produced merely fed the shadows, making the room seem even more underlit. To the right of the board, a door hinted at the possibility of an exit, but it may have well been bolted shut. Until someone found a way out of their restraints, no one was going anywhere.

It looked a lot like a classroom.

That did not make any sense (but what did?). A year short of seventy, Acacia had long left her schooling days behind. Occasionally, her job required the odd visit to the Miskatonic University, but to the best of her knowledge, there were no rooms in the Miskatonic like this one. Besides, she had no appointments with the University in recent days.

Or had she? Acacia frowned, unable to remember. She dug through her thoughts, but her memories of the last few days would not surface. Stranger still, she felt no gap in her past, but where her memories should have been was an indistinct haziness that scattered her focus whenever she came close to remembering. The last thing she _could_ remember was that of working on her journal, but even that felt distant, incomplete.

Eventually she gave up, turning her attention back to the present. The music had finally begun to fade. For a few seconds, all Acacia could hear were the cries of her fellow captives, but even that too died down as across the room, a projector screen began to descend. All attention fell upon the screen. After the thunderous performance of _Dies Irae_, the silence that followed was painful.

The silence was broken by the projector sputtered to life. For a few seconds, there was only the soft humming and whirring of the machine as it warmed up. Then an image appeared, and a monochrome countdown began. Acacia watched the numbers fall away towards zero with rapt attention. It was hard to say what she expected to see – demands from a terrorist organization seemed the most likely option; she'd heard plenty about the increase in Anti-Unificactionist activity. Other possibilities ran through her head – scientists, serial killers, reality show hosts.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

The countdown reached zero, and the speakers erupted with ridiculously merry fanfare. Bright colors and dizzying flashes filled the screen, as a young Japanese girl bounced excitedly into frame.

"_Konichiwa_!" the girl exclaimed, greeting everyone with an exaggerated salute. She was dressed in military fatigues – well, the kind they gave models to wear, anyway, what with the amount of midriff and cleavage she had on display.

"What the fuck is this?" Acacia heard somebody say. A few heads turned, searching for whoever had spoken, but Acacia kept her focus on the screen. But even as she did her best to remain focused on the present, the question burned in her mind.

Just what the hell was going on?

~ W ~

Never in her life had Acacia Widmore ever been so happy to see the Japanese.

Having lost her father – a faceless yet domineering figure for much of her childhood – on the shores of Iwo Jima, it was hard not to experience a slight sense of resentment whenever she had to deal with the citizens of the Republic of Greater East Asia. Right now, however, as she trod towards the research station _Akira_, the only things that could have made her happier were maybe a warm fireplace and a nice mug of hot chocolate.

Yet something caused her to stop. A sense of unease washed over her. Everything felt vaguely unreal. What if the station was nothing more than a hallucination, a dying dream to ease her suffering as she froze to death? After all, as far as their charts were concerned, the station was not even supposed to exist. Yet here it was, no matter how many times she looked – a dark mound of concrete against the unbearable whiteness of the Antarctic snows. It _had_ to be real, but no matter how much she tried, Acacia could not find it within her to believe. She wished she had not sent Dudley ahead, but their rescuer had insisted on informing the base of their arrival.

Stephen Halperin, her pilot, came up behind her. "Something wrong?" he asked, placing his good hand upon her shoulder.

Acacia shook her head. "It's…it's nothing."

"Just that it's too good to be true, right?" Halperin smiled. "Who knows? Maybe God's watching over us after all."

Watching over you especially, Acacia wanted to add. A day ago they had been debating over whether to eat him. She had vetoed the decision, but a day or two more and she was sure that whatever authority she held as the expedition's leader would not count for much.

"You really think so?" she said instead.

Halperin shrugged. "You can't explain everything."

There was no debate over that. When five people walk away from a plane crash with nothing more serious than a broken arm, Acacia supposed it was still possible to pin the whole thing on dumb luck. But when said plane crash had occurred due to the sudden failure of every single piece of electronic device on board, well, conventional theory just seemed a little bit…inadequate. Factor in five days of survival out in the Antarctic wilderness with hardly any supplies, and it became easy to forgive anyone who wanted to blame the whole affair on the workings of Fate.

"You guys coming or what?"

Acacia turned back around. The rest of her team had made it to the station, huddling by the entrance. For a moment a sense of hopelessness befell her, as she convinced herself the base must have been abandoned after all, but the doors slid open, and out poured several Japanese men to welcome them in.

Acacia flashed them the thumbs up, and together with her pilot, started making their way towards the bunker. Her sense of unease remained, but exhaustion and relief spurred her on, and there was little she could do but head inside.

~ W ~

The video continued to play.

The girl in the video carried on in her native tongue, clapping her hands and trembling wildly with barely contained excitement. Acacia did not share the girl's language or her enthusiasm, but she understood the girl's meaning well enough. Every time the girl spoke, subtitles would flash across the bottom of the screen –big, bold, brightly colored, and impossible to miss, they read:

WELCOME TO BATTLE ROYALE

The gasps that followed were more than justified. Acacia had heard about the Battle Royale Act – after the huge international stir it had caused a few years back, who hadn't? The Republic of Greater East Asia had described it as a 'police action meant to discourage increasing rates of teenage rebellion and delinquency'. What it actually entailed, involved kidnapping a class of fourteen year old children and forcing them to kill one another until only one remained. The idea behind it, Acacia had read, was to use it as a means to scare the youth into obedience, like the proverbial boogeyman under the bed. In practice, things had seldom worked out that way. Considering that the worst of the so called 'rebellious youth' had mostly quit school altogether, officials had resulted to selecting classes with mild discipline records, or, during the Act's final years, had started to select classes entirely at random.

But that did not make any sense. Acacia was not a citizen of the Republic of Greater East Asia, and the idea that she might possibly be classified as a 'delinquent youth' was laughable at best. But those were merely trifling inconsistencies compared to what bothered her most:

The Battle Royale Program had been terminated three years ago.

The media had pounced on the announcement, working the story for weeks, yet for all their opinions and investigations, nobody could explain why the Japanese government had done what they did. For close to ten years, the Republic of Greater East Asia had ignored all pressure from the United Nations to shut down the Program. People assumed the BR Act would simply go on, until the day it suddenly did not. No reason was given for the move. Speculation was rife, and many had suspected it was nothing more than an elaborate bluff, but as the years passed, all the signs continued to point to only one thing: the Battle Royale Program was dead.

Well, up to now, at least.

Certainly, the death of the Program did not appear to be inconveniencing the girl in the video in the least, who was busy working herself up into a state of self-perpetuating enthusiasm. NOW IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO LEARN HOW TO PLAY THE GAME, she carried on, with even more cheer than before. LISTEN WELL, SO YOU CAN FIGHT WITH GUSTO!

A cartoonish drawing of an island took the girl's place, looking like it had been made by a five year old with a box of crayons. YOU ARE ON A DESERTED ISLAND THAT LOOKS LIKE THIS, the girl continued, off-screen. A giant red arrow popped up, just to drive the point home. IT'S ABOUT 10 KILOMETERS AROUND, SO YOU HAVE PLENTY OF SPACE TO COMPETE!

A black grid was scribbled over the island, measuring ten squares in each direction. THE ISLAND IS DIVIDED INTO MANY ZONES, the girl explained. EVERY SIX HOURS, YOUR TEACHER WILL BROADCAST UPDATES ABOUT WHICH ZONES ARE BECOMING DANGER ZONES. IF YOU'RE IN THOSE ZONES, YOU SHOULD LEAVE QUICKLY BECAUSE…

As the girl spoke, even more cutesy illustrations were busy populating the screen. A young boy with wide eyes and a wider grin appeared, followed by about twenty different signs that symbolized warning and caution. The screen flashed red. Klaxons sounded. The boys grin finally disappeared as he realized his mistake, and…

"BOOM!" the girl popped back into view, needing no subtitles to convey her message. NOW, ABOUT THE COLLARS YOU'RE WEARING. THEY'RE 100% SHOCKPROOF AND WATERPROOF…AND PERMENANT. IT MONITORS YOUR PULSE, AND KEEPS TRACK OF YOUR MOVEMENTS AND LOCATION. SO TRY NOT TO WALK INTO ANY DANGER ZONES, OK?

At the mention of the collars Acacia felt her neck tighten. Her arms tensed up, anticipating movement that would not, could not come. In a way, it was all for the best – if it were not for the restraints she would have tried to claw the damn thing off, explosives be damned. But she couldn't, and so she turned her attention back upon the video, doing her best to ignore her growing sense of claustrophobia. Focus. It was essential she understood all the facts of her situation if she was going to survive.

NOW, YOU WILL BE GIVEN PERMISSION TO LEAVE YOR DESKS ONE BY ONE. REMEMBER, ONCE YOUR NAME IS CALLED YOU HAVE TWO AND A HALF MINUTES TO GET OUT OF THE STARTING ZONE, BUT FIRST, DON'T FORGET TO COLLECT YOUR PERSONAL KITBAG FROM YOUR LOCKER ON THE WAY OUT! INSIDE YOU'LL FIND FOOD AND WATER, A MAP OF THE ISLAND, A WATCH, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY… the girl paused, reaching into her bag to produce a bright red fire axe. Holding it up to the screen, she squealed in delight. WOW, THIS ONE IS SUPER LUCKY!

EACH WEAPON IS DIFFERENT, TO ELIMINATE NATURAL ADVANTAGES. IT'S NOT JUST GUNS AND KNIVES EITHER, SO MAYBE YOU'LL GET LUCKY, MAYBE NOT. AND BY THE WAY, YOUR BAG WON'T OPEN UNTIL YOU'VE CLEARED THE STARTING ZONE, AND YOU CAN'T COME BACK IN ONCE YOU LEAVE, SO NO CHEATING!

At last, some of the girl's energy began to ebb. Speaking slowly, in a conspirator's voice, she leaned closer to the screen. LAST BUT NOT LEAST, DON'T FORGET: YOU'VE ONLY GOT THREE DAYS TO COME UP WITH A WINNER, IF NOT ALL THE COLLARS WILL GO BOOM, SO LET'S FIGHT HARD TO MAKE SURE THAT DOESN'T HAPPEN, OK?

The girl winked, and flashed the peace sign as the image faded away. She might as well have given them the finger; Acacia could not think of a more offensive way to end the video.

Several voices began to speak up, then indistinct murmuring. More voices joined in, louder, panicked, confused, threatening to spill the room into full blown chaos, but they were hushed by the appearance of another countdown upon the screen. For ten more seconds, the room fell silent, but this time it was different. Acacia could feel a sense of expectation and anticipation, as though the room had not been placated but was merely holding its energies back.

The countdown reached zero, disappeared. A loud buzzer sounded.

Then somebody stood up.

Attention shifted from the screen to the man who had just moved. He was Asian, in his late teens or early twenties, well built, with striking (though somewhat effeminate) features. A slight grin showed on his face, but for all else he seemed unconcerned with his situation or of the audience watching him. He moved unhurriedly but straight towards the exit, with not so much as a glance in any other direction.

His departure shattered the silence that had befallen the room. It gave the others a target to focus their fear and anger upon, unleashing upon him what they could not upon their kidnappers.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Get help! You've got to get help!"

"Please man, I'll do anything, get me out of this thing!"

"This is a joke, right? Somebody, tell me this is some kind of joke!"

"Don't you know how I am? Get me the fuck out of this you fucking chink or I'll fucking have you killed!"

Acacia watched as chaos took the room. This was not good. To panic like they were doing down would be the death of them. Whatever hope they had in finding a way out of their situation, it would be through calm, logical thought. They needed to step back, assess the situation, and deal with it, one small step at a time.

And the first step would be to get everyone to calm down.

"ENOUGH!"

It took her a few tries, but eventually the noise began to dissipate, and the room's attention fell upon her.

"Listen," she spoke slowly, making sure everyone could hear her. "I know the situation looks bad, but this is not the time to give up." She chose her words carefully. Confidence was important, but make too bold a claim and she would lose them.

"My name is Acacia Lexington. I don't know what's going on, or how I got here, but what I do know is this: panicking is not going to help us. We can sit here screaming and shouting for all we want, but then whoever's behind this – they win. What they want is for us to run around scared, to play into their twisted game. What we need to do, is to forget all that. We're going to stay calm, and figure this thing out. We've got three days. I say we put those three days to good use, and figure out a way out of this mess."

She sat back, and waited for a reply. What she got was not what she wanted.

"Give it up, lady."

Acacia looked at the man who had just spoken. He was dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt, though his pasty skin and ripples of fat suggested a far less outdoorsman existence.

"You think you're the first person to think of that?" the man continued. "Trust me lady, they've been trying for ten years to escape Battle Royale. You want to know how many people have done it? Zero. Zilch. Nada. None."

The buzzer sounded again, before Acacia could reply. A middle-aged woman in a business suit began to stand up, but she paused midway, as though unsure of whether to carry on. Looking at Acacia, she smiled half-heartedly, as if to offer her condolences, before scurrying out of the room. Nobody challenged her.

Acacia wanted to tell the other woman to wait, but she had no idea how much time it would take for the woman to get out of the danger zone, and she dared not take the risk. Acacia sighed. She had to hurry. She had lost two already. She did not want to lose a third.

"Twelve years ago," she began, speaking faster this time. "I was in a plane crash. My team and I were stranded in the middle of the Antarctic. We had almost no equipment or supplies. By all means, I should have died there, but instead, I accomplished the impossible. I got my team home." She allowed herself a pause, letting her story sink in. "Now, I'll admit that the odds might be against us. But if we give up right now, then we've got no chance at all. But listen to me – if there's any possibility of us getting out of here, no matter how slight, I promise you – we're going to find it."

"And you know what?" said the man in the Hawaiian shirt. "If we play the game, that's a guaranteed chance of one of us going home. That's one hundred percent, so tell me why I shouldn't say no?"

"You don't know that," said Acacia. Her voice has lost some of its edge. There was something about the man that made her feel uncomfortable. He almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

"I know a lot more than you."

Before Acacia could reply, another man cut her off. He had long dark hair, slicked back with copious amounts of gel. He had a pair of expensive looking sunglasses hanging from the collar of an expensive looking suit.

"I'm with Jabba here," the second man said. "I'm not going to sit around for three fucking days waiting to fucking die."

"You can't be serious," Acacia blurted out, before she could stop herself.

The man with the sunglasses winked at her. "You play your little games, sister, and I'll play mine."

Acacia kept quiet. She had expected to deal with dissent, for one or two of the others to be tempted by the game, but not for someone to outright embrace it. It worried her. Just who were these people she was trapped with?

"What now?" the girl seated next to Acacia whispered to her. She was pale and thin, almost to the point of being skeletal. She sat hunched over in her seat, trembling, as though struggling with the weight of the light shining down upon her.

For a long time, Acacia said nothing. She wanted to say something comforting, but the only words that came to mind sounded hollow and false. As much as she hated to admit it, there was little she could actually do.

"I need to think," Acacia admitted at last.

And in the meantime, the game went on.

~ W ~

The next few days were a blur of medical checkups and long, pleasant, naps. At first, Acacia had been reluctant to sleep, afraid that she would awake to see nothing but infinite whiteness, the illusion of their rescue dispelled. But the enticement of a warm bed was far too much to bear, and finally she had acknowledged her exhaustion. When the world did not disappear when she woke up, nearly fourteen hours later, it had taken much effort to work her way out of bed.

Not like there was anything else to do, anyway. Other than the station's doctor, none of the Japanese research crew made any attempt to interact with Acacia's team. In fact, they seemed to carry on with their daily rituals with a determined effort to exclude the new arrivals from their lives. At first, Acacia had blamed the language barrier, but they seemed to have had no problems understanding her when spoken to. Curious, she decided to ask the doctor about it.

"They are unaccustomed to foreigners," the doctor explained. "Please, excuse their apparent rudeness. They are brilliant men, but not in the way of social graces."

"And what about you?"

The doctor shrugged. "I have been to American often enough. My son is in one of your universities."

The conversation digressed. Acacia suspected he was covering for them, but decided to drop the issue. The most likely explanation for their behavior was probably a professional selfishness of sorts – the fear that one of her teammates might try to steal the fruits of their research, whatever it was. In all honesty, Acacia couldn't have cared less. They might have been sending signals to aliens in outer space for all she knew; all she wanted was to get her team back home.

That opportunity finally presented itself the day after. The doctor had apologized for the delay, citing a problem with the station's communication relay, but eventually the helicopter that was to take them home had arrived. And just in time, too. The members of her crew were already getting restless, and even her old feelings of resentment towards the Japanese were beginning to resurface, rescue or not.

Thankfully, the helicopter crew turned out to be entirely American, though they had not arrived unaccompanied. As Acacia made her way towards the vehicle, she was surprised to see a woman already in the passenger cabin. She introduced herself as Sophie Davenport, a freelance journalist, as she stuck out a hand to help Acacia on board.

Acacia smiled, impressed at the woman's tenacity. "You've come a long way for a story, Miss Davenport."

"You could say I was in the area," Sophie replied. "The pilot told me about you guys. It sounded a lot more exciting than looking at a bunch of penguins all day."

"Well, I hate to disappoint, but I came here to write about penguins."

Sophie laughed. It was not an unpleasant laugh, but there was something about it that felt a bit rehearsed. It was probably nothing but paranoia, Acacia told herself. Just because her plane had crashed under mysterious circumstances didn't mean the entire world was out to hide something.

Acacia looked out the window, if only to hide her displeasure. She spotted the rest of her team coming out of the station, making their way towards the vehicle. Of the station's inhabitants, only the doctor had come to see them off. He was speaking to Halperin, probably giving him some last minute advice on his broken arm.

"Ever thought of eating him?" said Sophie, abruptly.

"What?"

This time Acacia made no attempt to hide her disgust. Sophie quickly backed down. "I'm sorry. A bad joke."

Acacia paused, remembering the look on Halperin's face as the rest of her team had debated on whether to kill him. It was not a memory she wanted to keep.

"No," she declared. "It was never an option, not even if it bettered our individual chances of survival. I promised to get these men home, and I would never willingly turn my back on that promise."

Sophie nodded in reply, but said nothing. The arrival of her team members and the doctor spared them the prospect of an awkward silence.

"Good luck to you, Miss Widmore," said the doctor, pushing a stack of documents into her hands – medical records. He chuckled softly to himself. "Though I suppose, a woman like you has no use of it."

"Thank you too, Doctor…" She paused, realizing that she had never asked the doctor about his name.

"Doctor Aida," the doctor finished. "Though I do not think we shall ever have the chance to meet again."

"You never know." Acacia smiled. "Perhaps I one day I might meet your son."

A strange smile appeared on the doctor's face, but he said nothing. Acacia wondered what it meant. She meant to ask him where his son was studying, but then the rotors of the helicopter started up, and all chance of finding out anything more was lost.

~ W ~

"So, what are we going to do?"

Almost an hour had passed. About half the contestants had left the room, some more enthusiastically than others. Since then, the best response Acacia had managed to come up with was a half-hearted shrug.

"We try to gather as many people as we can," said Acacia, keeping her voice down. "If we can get enough of us, maybe we can convince the rest."

"You think they'll listen?"

"I hope so," said Acacia. "If not…" her words trailed off. She thought of the alternative, knowing that to take it would be playing into the hands of whoever was running the game, but there didn't appear to be any other way. "If not, we'll have to stop them."

The girl made a noise that might have been laughter. "Pretty sour lemonade, huh."

Acacia did not reply. Something else was happening. The room had gone quieter, and everyone seemed to be looking in the same direction. She craned her neck, trying to see what was going on.

Another one of the contestants had been released. It must have been a while ago; Acacia had not even heard the buzzer go off. But the man did not move. He remained in his chair, arms folded. His lips curled upwards slightly, giving the impression of a smile, but otherwise his face remained blank.

"Dude," somebody called out. "It's your turn."

The man did not budge. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "Don't you get it? There's nothing out there. This is all one huge joke. I'm calling their bluff."

"Dude, your collar…"

"Is going to remain as it is," the man finished. "Nothing's going to happen. There is no game, no Battle Royale. You're all fools for thinking otherwise. Just watch. I'm going to prove them wrong."

"You ain't proving anything, asshole." It was the man with the Hawaiian shirt, the one who had argued with her earlier. "You want to know what's gonna happen? That collar is going to explode, and all your idiot brains are just gonna get splattered all over the floor. That's what's gonna happen. Way to screw this one up buddy, cause you're just gonna die!"

"No, I'm not."

He sounded almost certain. For an instant, Acacia was tempted to believe him. The fat man laughed, though nobody else joined in. The rest of the room remained silent, waiting for the decisive moment to come.

Time passed. A small light on the man's collar began to flash orange, then red as it started to beep, slowly at first, then gaining in speed and intensity, but still the man remained still, smug smile upon his face, even as the beeping became nothing but a single high pitched note, growing in volume until…

Nothing. The noise stopped, and the light disappeared. For an instant, the room dared to breathe.

Then the flash of light came, blinding, and the sound of the explosion a fraction of a second later, and the shock that came with it. And then the blood, so much of it, everywhere. The man fell to the floor, his face frozen in that confident grin. For Acacia, everything seemed to freeze. None of it felt real. This was the part where the dream was supposed to end, but it didn't. The buzzer sounded again, and the next contestant was released.

And the game went on.

Male Contestant # 11: Gillespie, Vincent - DEAD

45 Contestants Remain  



	3. Hour 02: Requiem, Part 2

**Hour 02: Requiem, Part 2**

_45 Contestants Remain_

_

* * *

  
_

More than ever, Calvin Faraday (Male Contestant # 08) wanted a drink.

His head hurt. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. Had it been enough for him to go into detox? He wished he could remember when he had had his last drink, but his thoughts swam about uselessly like a school of amnesiac goldfish, and also his head hurt.

This was not what he needed right now.

A small yet vocal part of his brain was screaming at him, stressing some important need to stay alert. It had sort of worked, in the sense that Calvin had managed to make it out of the starting zone without say, tripping over himself. But whatever sense of urgency or coordination he had managed to muster thus far was fading fast, replaced only by a violent throbbing in his head. Had to keep moving, but to where? Massaging his temples and staring out into velveteen darkness, he realized that he hadn't the foggiest idea of what he was supposed to do.

He wondered if he was hallucinating. It seemed like a reliable diagnosis, or at least, Calvin had the vague idea that it might have been a reliable diagnosis – he could not for the life of him put together the reasons that would ground the theory in the realms of possibility. He could feel his heart beating in his head, like an earthquake bouncing his thoughts around. That couldn't be right.

He had to clear his head. He had to sit down.

His legs must have anticipated the idea; Calvin found he was already sitting down, propped up against a tree. It was not a very comfortable tree, but it seemed to help, all the same. His head still hurt, but less so. Yes, this was more like it.

Much better.

* * *

There was blood everywhere. The air stank of copper and gunpowder. Soon it would smell a lot worse, but by then, he would be gone.

Dexter Kincaid (Male Contestant # 14) smiled involuntarily. It was altogether not an unfamiliar situation, even if the memories associated with it were bitter. Strange, how one could find comfort in the most horrific of things. Even the manacles that held his forearms to the table were not entirely unpleasant. Things were about to get a lot worse soon; he might as well enjoy all the comfort he could get.

The buzzer sounded again, and the next contestant left the room. Five more minutes, and it would be his turn to go.

In the meantime, he told himself to relax.

~ W ~

"You've got five minutes."

A light shove pushed him inside, and Dexter heard the door behind him slam. A plain white room, undecorated, harshly lit. Two chairs and a table, bolted down, edges blunt. Security camera overhead, large, intentionally conspicuous; a pleasant reminder that he was always being watched.

He sat himself down. There was nowhere he could have hidden, not that he wanted to. You couldn't even hide a shadow what with all the light. Nothing escaped the camera's gaze.

A moment later the door opened, and someone stepped in. A woman. Dexter felt his interest peak, though there was nothing sexual about his curiosity. It just had been so long since he had seen a woman – a real one, not the dragged up faggots in the AIDS ward. This one was evidently Caucasian, tall, blue eyes, blond hair tied back in a ponytail. Professional looking. Common traits enough even here, but yet the curve of her figure, her handbag, heels, all marked her as something different, strange, foreign.

Dexter licked his lips, grinned.

The woman sat down opposite him. "You are Dexter Kincaid," she said. It was not a question. "Three counts of murder in the first degree, including a minor. Sentenced to death, but reduced to life without parole. Very impressive."

"If you read it to the end, you'll see it says I don't have private visitation rights, either."

"This isn't a visit," the woman snapped. "Think of this as a job offer."

That explained the résumé. Dexter laughed, raising his hands and giving his chains a good rattle. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but as you can see, I've already been contracted out." He sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Unless you're talking about what I'm thinking, but then the answer's still no. Getting a bullet in the back of the head isn't my idea of a good severance package."

"Nobody's going to break you out, Mr. Kincaid. Now I suggest you shut up, unless you plan on wasting our time with more useless remarks."

Dexter shut up, nonplussed at the woman's attitude. Usually, when you kill a few people, the rest of the world tended to look at you in a different light. Even the senior guards tended to be a little uncomfortable around him. Yet here he was being treated like a small child.

He leaned forward. This was getting interesting.

The woman reached inside her bag, and produced a short stack of photographs. She pushed them towards him. Attached to the photographs was a short note.

"Don't think I could put all these upside my asshole," he said, trying to get a reaction out of her.

"Just read the note, Mr. Kincaid."

"How about you read it out for me?"

"I don't do bedtime stories," the woman replied. "If you're not going to cooperate, then our business is done."

She reached for the note. Dexter was tempted to grab her wrist, but if he touched her he knew the game would be all over, time instead for the guards to rush in with their nightsticks, solitary ward, good place to jerk off maybe, but still not very worth it. Instead he pulled the note away. He wanted to see how this played out.

He grinned again, and read the note. Then he looked at the photographs, and read the note again. When he was done, his smile was gone.

"This is a joke right?" He picked up one of the photographs, and dangled it in front of the woman. "I mean, are you serious? What did this old bird do, run over a baby with her stroller?"

"I don't joke, Mr. Kincaid."

Dexter picked through the photos. "How about these few? The last I checked, this was a men's prison, how do you expect me to- "

"Enough," the woman cut him off. Her glance at the camera told him all he needed to know.

"-take care of this…request," Dexter finished.

"Sometimes, Mr. Kincaid, things have a way of falling into place." She smiled. It was the first real display of emotion she had shown since entering the room. "Now, do you want the job, or not?"

"What's in it for me? I was thinking of money, you know, except that I've got nowhere to spend it."

"We're not offering you anything, Mr. Kincaid. You're going to do it for us anyway."

"Oh? Now why is that?"

"Because," said the woman. "When the time comes, you're going to think about that letter, and maybe it's true, or maybe it's not. But you're going to be curious, Mr. Kincaid, and curiosity is as good a motivator as any."

Dexter said nothing, stared. "I think we're done here," he announced. "Thank you, Miss…"

"Davenport," the woman finished, as she swept away the photographs back into her bag. "And you'd do well to remember those faces."

"I'm sure," he said bitterly, standing up. Right on cue, the door swung open and the warden stepped in. "Hey, and if you know what? If I see Adolf Hitler doing my bed sheets tomorrow, I'll throw him in for free."

"That's enough," the warden interrupted, seizing him by the arm. "Time for you to go."

~ W ~

It was his turn to go.

Dexter Kincaid stood up, flexed. His wrists felt sore, from the manacles. The rest of his body felt just as bad, though from god knew what.

He looked around the room. To the right of him lay the exit, but it was not where he wanted to go, not yet. There was something he had to do, first.

He spun around, and walked down the rows of contestants, away from the exit. They were watching him, he knew. Once he did this, there would be no going back. Then again, if morality had a horizon, he had already crossed it years ago. Didn't matter how much further you went. Didn't matter what these people thought of him now, or ever.

He continued walking until he had reached the back of the room, where the old lady had given her impassioned speech. He stopped in front of her desk. Her head was down, brow wrinkled, lost in thought. Dexter paused. He needed her attention.

"Hey," he said softly. "Do you think we can do it? Do you really think we escape?"

Acacia looked up, and gave him the chance he wanted.

Dexter slapped her, hard. Acacia's head snapped back, her neck muscles loosening to absorb the blow as Dexter moved in, seizing her head with both hands and twisting as hard as he could. There was a loud snap, and all resistance fell away. He released his grip, and Acacia fell away, gurgling, convulsing. There had not even been enough time for her to scream.

Somebody else did scream, anyway, the dark haired girl sitting next to Acacia, and maybe a few others, too. Dexter ignored them. Acacia was not dead, at least, not yet. She was still conscious, fighting for air that would not come, perfectly aware of fate. Her manacles kept her arms pinned to the table; there was no place for her to fall. It could not have been a comfortable way to die, but comfort was probably the least of her worries. Her dignity bled out across the floor. It stank.

It would take at least a minute more before she died, if she was lucky. Dexter lingered, wishing he could stay with her to the end. It was the last he could have done. After all, he had taken her life, and for a reason he suspected neither of them truly understood. But time was not on his side, and there was much more that he had to do. He had already spotted a few of the other faces in the photographs, and they had already left before him. Time to go, but not quite yet.

He squatted down beside Acacia instead, and patted her gingerly on the forehead.

"I'm sorry," said Dexter, unsure if Acacia could hear him or not. "But we all have our own little scripts to follow, and I'm afraid yours just had to end here."

Someone was shouting obscenities at him. He could hardly have cared less. Standing up, Dexter spared Acacia a second longer, then turned around and walked out of the room, whistling.

* * *

"Hey mister, you alright?"

Calvin jerked awake. Someone had jabbed him. Hard.

"Ugh," Calvin managed to articulate. He opened his eyes and winced as artificial light flooded his retinas. "Ugh."

Calvin swatted the air in front of him. "Get that out of my face," he slurred.

It took several seconds for Calvin's instructions to sink in. "S-Sorry," the man with the flashlight muttered, and shifted its beam to a less painful location.

Calvin took in his surroundings. It was still dark. Had he passed out on the way home again? None of what he could see looked familiar, but it was not the first time he had found himself in similar circumstances…not the alleyway at least, though the tree he was propped against was a bad sign. The park? Ugh, the vomit was bad enough without having to deal with mud and dog shit all over his clothes.

"Shit," he muttered, to no one in particular.

The man was patient, at least. He stood by quietly, unmoving, unobtrusive, as Calvin attempted to pull his consciousness together. Calvin wondered who he was. No uniform, and not smelly enough to have been a bum. That left only the worst kind of person: a busybody.

"What?" asked Calvin, when it was clear that his companion had no intention of making the first move.

"I'm sorry?" came the reply, barely audible over the shuffling of the man's feet. Calvin saw then that the man was still very much a boy, no more than twenty or so, clean shaven, watery eyes, young enough to still have hopes and dreams and ambitions and the like.

"Who are you?" Calvin tried again.

The kid's eyes lit up. "Nick," he said excitedly. "Nick Brannigan. But you can call me Nick."

"Yeah well, Nick, whatever, I mean, what is it that you want?"

"Well, I…you know…" Nick paused, seeming to wrestle with the question for a bit. "I mean, that old woman said we should work together, and I found you just lying here, so I thought, you know, that maybe I ought to, check if you were ok?"

"What old woman?" Calvin asked, even as the answer hit him. But that had just been a dream, right? The classroom, the weird Japanese girl, Battle Royale…it was all too insane to be true. He raised a hand to his neck, his fingers brushing against cold steel.

"Oh," he said, as the rest of the details hit him, jolting him awake like no shot of espresso ever could. He scrambled to his feet. "Shit," he said, as he realized what had happened. "Shit shit shit shit shit shit _shit_. How long have been out?"

"Uh," said Nick. He had taken several steps back. Calvin's sudden movement seemed to have triggered some sort of flight mechanism within him, but the question seemed to have halted his progress. "About an hour, maybe? I don't know, I just left the bunker, and I found you here, and…"

"Yeah, ok, I get it. Look, I'm not going to do anything to you, ok? So how about we just calm down for a bit?"

Nick seemed to take his suggestion to heart. "Yeah," he said after awhile, unhelpfully.

Calvin sighed. "Ok. So now you've found me. What now?"

The boy shrugged, but at least this time he managed to come up with a reply without having to confer with his feet. "I don't know sir, I…"

"Call me Calvin."

"Sorry...Calvin, I sort of had an idea that there had to be some kind of reason behind all this, right? Like, there's got to be some reason why were all picked for this…you know. There's gotta be some reason we were chosen, right? I thought maybe if we could work out what that reason was, we'd have a better idea of what's going on. Maybe if we find out what we have in common, we might learn something."

Calvin was impressed, though more with the length of Nick's speech than its content. He shook his head. "Look, no offense kid; I'm sure you've got a wonderfully tragic story to tell, but I doubt there's any pattern to all this, ok? We were in the wrong place at the wrong time, when some crazy decided to whisk us away to have us all try to kill each other. Don't need a reason for that. Sometimes shit just happens."

"I guess so," Nick replied, having gone back to gazing at his feet. Whatever courage he had must have gone into finishing his little speech. Calvin was amazed the boy had even dared to wake him up in the first place.

"Besides, we've got more important things to do," Calvin snapped. He did not mean to sound as impatient as he did, but he could feel his headache coming back, sapping away whatever sympathy he might have felt for the boy. "It's not safe here. We've got to keep moving, look for someplace safe. You good with a map?"

"I used to go on hikes with my Dad..."

"Good. You lead the way then." Calvin rubbed his temples, feeling his headache coming back. "I'll…keep a lookout."

Nick nodded, and began to rummage through his kitbag for his map. Calvin watched the boy in silence. With any luck, the responsibility would help grow the kid a backbone, if not, at the very least, the task would shut him up.

Either way, this was going to be a long night.

* * *

Life, Dmitri Wrangler (Male Contestant # 23) reflected, was not fair. Sometimes, not matter how much you prayed to God or did all the right things, it just threw you at the bottom of the pile. He supposed by now he was supposed to be used to it. Maybe he was. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

But hey, if you couldn't profit, then you just had to keep persisting, right? That was what his Dad had always told him. Yeah, just keep on persisting until life got back around to knocking you back down the shit ladder.

All things considered, he had a pretty shit start. Being the last male contestant meant that he had to worry about the forty four other contestants out there ahead of him. By the time he got out, they'd have had plenty of time to scout the land, set up an ambush, and kill his sorry ass before he'd even get his weapon drawn. The only person who had drawn a worse position than him was Female Contestant # 23 (Acacia Widmore, he remembered her name was), and she was already dead. Yeah, you had to love those odds.

Ever since that dark skinned (but not black) motherfucker had taken out the old lady, Dmitri had been waiting in fear, expecting the next sicko down the way to do the same to him. Every time the buzzer rang, he felt his heart stop, half-expecting his life to end right there. Pride kept his hands from shaking too much, but nothing could stop the cold sweat that dripped from his brow. He knew that if wanted to survive, he had to look tough, but in reality, (what with the baby face of his) he knew all he looked like was just another victim. Seated at the very front of the room, right next to the exit, Dmitri knew he was easy pickings.

Thankfully, none of the other contestants stopped by his table as they left the room. At least, not yet. There were still six more of them to go, next of which that slimy looking guy in the suit who had threatened the old lady earlier. It didn't take much for anyone to realize that that guy was trouble. But he wasn't the only one that Dmitri was worried about. He'd been watching each of the contestants as they left the room. Most of them were scared, unthinking, doing their best to get out of the room as fast as possible. Dmitri didn't care about those. He was worried about those who took their time, leaving the room with a deliberation that left him uncomfortable.

Male Contestant # 14 was the obvious threat, along with the greasy suit (Male Contestant # 20) and the fat guy who had sounded like he was actually excited to play the game (Male Contestant # 13). But there were others too. Male Contestant # 07, a tall, heavily scarred man with an army buzz cut certainly didn't look like he was here to mess around. Male Contestant # 09, too, a young ginger kid, had literally been laughing as he strode out of the room. Of the women, most of them looked like they would be easy enough to handle, with the exception of Female Contestant # 16, a tanned, woman with arms who looked more like they belonged to a guy on steroids.

And then there was Male Contestant # 22. Dmitri had to cram his neck just to get a good look at him, but what he saw left Dmitri with a sense of unease. It wasn't that the man looked threatening in any way, but rather, it was the complete opposite. The man seemed completely at ease with his surroundings, an expression of complete serenity upon his face. He was dressed in a plain business wear, incongruous save for a pair of dark gloves. His clothes were perfectly pressed, his hair combed to model perfection.

He seemed almost unreal, more like a storefront mannequin than an actual person, unmoving, save for the small smile he offered Dmitri when he realized he was being watched. That smile evoked a sudden sense of deep fear within Dmitri, though he could not place why, and he quickly turned away.

He had not realized the buzzer had rung. The suit stood up, and made for the back of the room. Dmitri breathed a sigh of relief. At least it wasn't going to be him.

The suit stopped by the very last desk, where a young girl sat – dark hair, pale and skinny as fuck. Dmitri expect her to scream or at the very least cringe away, but instead she met the eyes of her would be murderer with an unexpected resolve. Guess seeing that old lady murdered must have taken all the fear right outta her.

"Can't say this is too unexpected," said the girl, her voice clearly audible even at the front of the room. "Go ahead, then, I don't care."

"My, my," the suit said. He stepped closer, twirling a finger through the girl's hair. "I would hardly be so…unimaginative as to follow in the footsteps of that…brute." He paused, and turned to regard the desk where Acacia Widmore had sat. "Allow me instead, to pay my respects to your friend. A pity that we never got to meet, though perhaps you might be the one to soothe my…disappointment."

Smiling, the man began to caress the girl's cheek. This time, the girl did pull away, which only seemed to entertain the suit even more. Grinning wildly, he patted her on the head, and walked out of the room.

"That is one sick motherfucker," Dmitri said, once the man was gone.

"No, shit," a woman's voice replied. It was Female Contestant # 20, the next in line to leave the room. She was a thickset woman with short, dirty blond hair. Her nose was a little crooked, as though it had been broken and poorly set back into place. Actually, her whole face looked like it had been broken and then poorly set back into place. Dmitri eyed her carefully, not knowing what to make of her.

"Tell me the truth," the woman continued. "You step out of that door, you just gonna be another one of him?"

Dmitri shrugged. "I ain't sure yet," he said. "But I ain't gonna let anyone mess with my chances of getting off this damn island alive." He was surprised at his own honesty, but it felt good to talk to someone, even if that someone was going to have to kill or be killed by him later.

"Fair enough," the woman replied.

"Yeah," Dmitri agreed, sinking back into his chair, as he waited for his turn. "Always gotta play fair."

Female Contestant # 23: Widmore, Acacia, DEAD 

_44 Contestants Remain_  



	4. Hour 03: The Hanged Man

**Hour 03: The Hanged Man**

_44 Contestants Remain_

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* * *

  
_

There was only so far years of training and experience could take you. Eventually, Veronica Rawley (Female Contestant # 16) realized, no matter how many times you ran a scenario through your head, no matter how many times you went through the same old drills and exercises, reality always caught up with you, threatening to carry you away with fear of the uncertainties that lay ahead. And there were always uncertainties, behind the next bush, around that next tree…too many factors that lay out of your control. In the end, you just had to suck it up, and hope what little you had was enough to carry you through.

At least she was armed. The weight of the Berretta M9 felt comfortable in her hands, familiar. The safety drills she had run through beforehand had put her mind at ease, pushed the uncertainty away long enough for her to make a tactical call:

Stick to the trees. Staying in the open allowed her the benefit of moonlight, but she'd be an easy target for anyone who wandered by. The dark of the jungle made for treacherous terrain – invisible pit holes, tangles of miniature shrubbery woven together in a labyrinth arrangement of knotted tree roots, vines, insect nests, outcroppings of bark and moss covered stone, patches of organic muck – ack. But at least her surroundings provided plenty of natural cover, without any need to worry about someone picking her off from afar. It was slow going, but at least she'd be able to hear anyone else coming her way.

She headed north. Always north, though occasionally having to weave away from the floating bobs of light that occasionally peppered the horizon. She kept her own light off; better to crawl through the near-absolute darkness than to call attention to herself. A tree was unlikely to kill her. Giving away her location to some axe-murderer would.

Veronica wondered if Desmond Attenborough (Male Contestant # 02) was busy dealing with the same shit as her. It tickled her somewhat, picturing the Lieutenant just as blind as she was, physically, at least. Figuratively, she wondered how much he knew about what was going on. The instructions he had whispered to her, schoolboy style, as he made his exit suggested an inkling of knowledge she as usual, had been excluded from. Hell, she wouldn't have been surprised if he had worked it all out with Keagan (Mathison, Male Contestant # 16) already. The paperwork may have made her part of their squad, but Veronica knew she'd never ever be one of _them_.

Speaking of Keagan, Veronica wondered where he was. That bastard hadn't so much as bothered to wait for her, despite being barely a seat away. She decided she would voice that out to him later, if she ever saw him again. First things first, she had to head north, just as the LT had said. Keagan could make his own damn way there. She had more important things to worry about, like keeping herself alive.

The wall of trees parted aside abruptly, and Veronica found herself standing in a clearing. The first thing that hit her was the smell – putrid, like rotting meat. Her first instinct was to turn back, find another way around, but curiosity (or was it fear?) kept her legs frozen, forcing her to hold her ground.

Her eyes absorbed the moonlight that bled through the gap in the forest canopy, and her vision deepened. The first thing she saw was the single tree that dominated the clearing, its twisted branches barren, spreading outwards like an array of serpents frozen mid-motion, seeming to ward off all other vegetation.

The second thing she saw was the body that dangled from the tree.

It was unmistakably human. Veronica gagged, all army discipline forgotten. It wasn't the first corpse she had seen, but none of those had ever been like this, so…_organic_. The body hung upside-down, secured from the feet with rope or thick vine – Veronica couldn't tell – bloated arms reaching for the ground as though contact would buy it its freedom. The corpses' eyes were missing, blood and shredded flesh around the sockets suggestion it had been done _pre-mortem_. Inside the missing sockets, something squirmed.

It took all of her training to regain composure of herself. She wasn't sure what other (possibly insane) part of her decided it would be a good idea to move closer, but before she knew it, there she was, actually standing right next to the damned thing.

The body was male, but beyond that, Veronica had no idea who the man was. He strapped up in a load-bearing vest, beneath which were military fatigues, but there was no nametag, no insignia. His pockets looked empty – Veronica wasn't sure if she really needed to know for sure. She tried to remember if she had seen him in the classroom – surely she would have remembered another military man – but the man's face continued to draw a blank.

"Friend of yours?" a voice sounded out behind her, alarmingly close.

There was no time to think, no time to do anything but let instinct take over. Veronica spun, around, her pistol feeling as natural as an extension of her arms as she brought it to bare and –

~ W ~

The gunshot was louder than she expected. It was always louder than she expected, not so much heard but _felt_; like someone had stuck a vibrating needle through both her eardrums.

It took her a second to realize that the man she had shot had fallen down. It took her a second longer to realize that someone was yelling at her.

"Stand down! Stand the fuck down!"

She could see the Lieutenant storming towards her, visibly screaming, but his words failed to register. He broached the distance between them quickly, fists clenched, face red. Automatically, the rest of her squad turned away, finding sudden interest in the sand, the bombed out buildings, the wire mesh fence and barbed wire, anything but her.

Lieutenant Daniels was a lanky, pale-faced kid, son of some senator or another, the sort of man who knew exactly what his position in life was and would make sure that everyone else – especially those beneath him – knew it too. Eventually, he'd be carried upwards on a silver platter to where he could fuck his underlings over from a more impersonal location, an event, Veronica would oftentimes muse, had not come soon enough.

"What the fuck was that for, Sergeant?"

Veronica did her best to compose herself. Her hands were shaking, her rifle suddenly heavy in her arms. The LT continued to scream, but his words felt distant, unimportant. All she could think about was the flash from the weapon's nozzle, the sudden twitch of her target, and the man hitting the ground, dead. They said things were supposed to slow down when the shit hit the fan. It didn't feel that way to her. She could barely remember causing any of her actions, only gazing out stupidly at their effects.

"You will answer me, Sergeant!'

It occurred to her that her weapon was still raised. Absentmindedly she lowered her gun, flicked the safety back on. Only then did she look up at the Lieutenant, tried to comprehend the orders being communicated to her.

"He tried to get past the checkpoint, sir," Veronica spoke, slowly. The words did not feel like her own. "Standing orders are to-"

"I know what the fucking standing orders are," the Lieutenant cut her off. "But do you know what the media is gonna make of this? Jesus Christ! You wanna tell me you see a giant flashing neon sign saying Al-Qaeda over that man's forehead?"

"No, sir."

"And you had to fucking shoot him in the head, didn't you? That part of the standing orders too? Shoot to fucking kill, no warning shot, no aim for the fucking leg first?"

"No, sir."

"Well then, you better hope to fucking God that he's strapped to high heaven with explosives, because if not, you've got ten minutes to make sure he's as guilty as fucking Osama bin Laden before I call this shit in. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes. _Sir_."

~ W ~

She hesitated.

Veronica could not explain what it was stopped her finger from pulling the trigger. All these years, they had told her never to hesitate in combat; better to be wrong than to be dead. And maybe Veronica would be dead right now, if the man in her sights had been better armed, but he was not, and she was still alive. She had gotten away, and she knew it. But still, why did she hesitate?

"Don't fucking move," she barked, trying to act as though this had been her plan all along. The light from the man's torch was causing her eyes to burn, but she kept her weapon trained upon him, lest he take advantage of the situation. She would not, or at least she told herself, allow him the same leniency twice.

Eventually, her eyes adjusted, and she finally got a good look at the man in her sights. He was dressed for the office, but it looked like he had seen some better days. His clothes were rumpled, his hair longer than average, unkempt. His jaw was peppered with several days worth of stubble. He was carrying a heavy-looking pipe wrench – deadly enough, but not from where he was standing.

"Get down on your knees!"

"Can't do both," said the man, oddly at ease with the gun pointed at his head. "Don't move, or get down on my knees? Make up your mind."

"You think this is funny?" Veronica jerked her gun threateningly in the man's direction. "Do you want me to just shoot you right now?"

"Okay, okay," the man replied, getting down on his knees. "Could have just said please."

"What's your name?"

"Calvin Faraday," the man replied. "And my friend somewhere behind you with a gun aimed at your head is Nick, but I don't think you've met him yet."

Veronica paused. Her first instinct was to turn around, but that was probably what the man wanted. How long would it take for him to get up and rush her with the pipe wrench? Probably longer than it would take for her to afford a glance behind but still…she wasn't going to take any chances.

"You're bluffing," she said at last, keeping her gun and gaze steady.

"Maybe I am," said Calvin. Was that a smile on his face? "Guess you might as well shoot me, then."

"Who says I wouldn't?"

Calvin shrugged. "Well, then I guess I would be dead, and maybe you'll be dead as well. So how about we both just put down our weapons and start over? I'm Calvin, by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Shut up," said Veronica. What exactly was he trying to do? If he was hiding a second weapon on him, putting down her weapon would be giving away the only advantage she had. Then again, if the man was telling the truth, that she really did have a gun aimed at her, then she was screwed if she did nothing.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"You first," she said at last.

The wrench fell to the ground. "Now it's your turn."

"Wait," said Veronica. "Step away from your weapon. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Calvin did as he was told. She approached him slowly, keeping her gun trained on him. It didn't look like he was hiding anything else on him, but it didn't hurt to be sure. Only when she was done patting him down did Veronica dare lower her gun.

"There,' said Calvin. "That wasn't that hard now, was it?"

"Now where's your friend?"

Right on cue, she heard the approach of someone coming up behind her. She turned around, and spotted a young boy stepping into the clearing. The Thompson he carried was threatening enough, but his stance betrayed his inexperience with the weapon – weapon stock tucked underneath his armpit, Tony Montana-style, than braced against his shoulder. Veronica doubted he had ever fired a weapon before in his life.

"Man, that was crazy!" the boy, whom she supposed was Nick, exclaimed. "I can't believe that worked!"

"Me neither," Calvin agreed. Turning to Veronica, he said, "So, you gonna play nice?"

Veronica shrugged. "Does it look like I have a choice?"

"Not really," said Calvin, as he walked past her, towards the direction of the corpse. "But it always helps to give them the illusion of free will."

"The hell that supposed to mean?" Veronica asked, but Calvin ignored her. He was staring at the body, a curious frown upon his face.

"You found him here like this?"

"Well, I didn't kill him."

"Nobody's saying you did," Calvin replied. He pointed to the corpse. "For one thing, our friend here doesn't have a collar on."

"So maybe whoever killed him took it off."

"Uh huh," Calvin nodded, leaning in closer and shining his torch about the body.

Veronica was getting frustrated. She wasn't sure if Calvin and Nick were planning on killing her, but if they weren't, they were certainly wasting her time. "What," she said, hoping to hurry Calvin up. "You some kind of doctor or something?"

"_Was_ a doctor," said Calvin. "Now I'm just a drunk." He shone his light inside the corpse's eye socket. "Here, take a look at this."

Veronica looked, and regretted it almost immediately. Maggots filled both sockets, writhing in pleasure as they gorged themselves upon the dead man's flesh.

"So?" asked Veronica, once she was sure she was in no danger of throwing up.

"Bugs," said Calvin.

"_So?_" Veronica repeated, even more indignant.

"So," said Calvin. "Bugs don't magically appear out of nowhere. I'd say this man's been dead a day at least, if not longer."

Veronica frowned. As difficult was Calvin was being; she was starting to see his point. "But we've only been here what, three hours?"

"I know. So that brings us to our next question: if we didn't do this sorry bastard in, then who did?"

~ W ~

"Tell me Sergeant, what's it like to kill a man?"

Like the man himself, the Lieutenant Colonel's office was all about Image. A great oak desk spread out beneath the watchful eye of the American Eagle, backed by double-padlocked filing cabinets and a window out onto the ashen streets, so that he could, on occasion, remind himself What This War Was All About. The surface of his desk was covered in an array of army memorabilia – family portrait, pictures from his commissioning, decorative medals, General McArthur sunglasses, oak leaf headdress, miniature American flag, standard issue coffee mug, intelligence reports marked Top Secret or higher, all of which were entirely dust free – no easy feat in this god awful country, for sure. Veronica had seen plenty of desks just like this one the course of her service. These officers never had any imagination.

The Lieutenant Colonel himself sat half-hidden behind his desk, browsing through a beige dossier. He had a full head of silvering hair, and what wrinkles he had accumulated over the years only seemed to lend to his authority; a face that could be either grandfatherly or stern, depending on his mood or situation. Right now it leaned towards the former, but she doubted the Colonel had called her into his office just for friendly banter.

Veronica waited to see if she was expected to actually answer the question. She was.

"I'm getting along, sir."

"This isn't a psych evaluation, Rawley," the Colonel replied. "Sit down."

Veronica sat herself down, but the Colonel remained absorbed in his paperwork. "Well?" he prompted.

Veronica shrugged. "It still hits me sometimes, I guess. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, or what else I'm thinking about, it just sorta creeps in. Feels like I've done something really wrong."

"Can't say there's anything wrong with that," said the Colonel, snapping shut the file and looking up for the first time since she had entered the room. "Let me tell you something, Sergeant. There's going to be people out there who are gonna tell you the first one is always the hardest. Don't listen to them. Taking another man's life, no matter how much of a son of a bitch that man was, is always gonna be the same. It's just your soul that's slowly going down the shitter."

The Colonel got up and moved over to the window, struck up a cigarette. He did not offer Veronica one.

"But for what it's worth," the Colonel continued. "I think you made the right call. It wasn't the best call, and it wasn't as right a call as Lieutenant Daniels would have liked, but it's the call you're gonna have to live with for the rest of your life, so you might as well accept it. You're not going to forget it, but that's ok. Nothing wrong with having a conscience, Rawley. Don't hurt to give it a little attention sometimes."

"I'll keep that in mind, sir."

"Good," said the Colonel. "Good. Something for you to think about on your flight home."

"Excuse me?" Veronica leapt to her feet. "You're pulling me out?"

"_Sit down_, Sergeant," the Colonel snapped. Whatever grandfatherly expression he may have held was gone.

"With all due respect sir," Veronica continued, unabashed. "I might not be at one hundred percent, but I'm still good to go. There's no need to send me back."

"This isn't up for debate, _Sergeant_," the Colonel said, stressing every word, and nearly spitting the last one out. Only in the military, could someone turn a person's rank into a death threat. "The paperwork's already been sent in motion. Once manpower gets their shit sorted out you're on the next flight home. Now sit the fuck _down_."

Veronica sat down, slowly. "This is because of Lieutenant Daniels, isn't it?" she whispered, as though speaking more softly would blunt her insubordination.

"Whether or not Lieutenant Daniels had any say in this is none of your business." The Colonel was still frowning, but he softened his tone considerably. "But if that's what everyone wants to think, then all the better. Honestly? I agree with you, our country needs you here. But what _I_ need, is for you to get on that plane."

Veronica said nothing. The Colonel waited, allowing his authority to sink in. Eventually, he flicked his cigarette out the window and returned to his desk.

"You ever heard of a Lieutenant Desmond Attenborough?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Good. You're not supposed to." He picked up a blank file from his table and tossed it into her lap. "You can read that later," the Colonel continued. "What matters now is that you've been officially transferred into his unit. Real Spec Ops stuff, but nothing like you've ever heard of before. Anyway, a week or so ago, our friend here goes on a merry little operation, what they tell me was supposed to be _routine_. Next thing we know, his entire squad's dead save for one guy in a coma, and Attenborough here, he walks out of it without so much as a fucking wrinkle on his balls."

"So what's this got to do with me?"

"Well it's a fuckup, for one, and the Army doesn't like fuckups. So while Attenborough is busy putting his little Band of Brothers Mark II back together, they're looking for someone on the inside with a good head on their shoulders, someone who's not afraid to make the right call when the situation demands it. Someone we can trust. Someone _I_ can trust. Can I trust you, Sergeant?"

"I don't have much choice in this matter, do I sir?"

"No _Sergeant_, you don't. Because you're a woman of conscience, and Attenborough is not a man to be trusted. So no matter how you feel, you're going to be my eyes and ears anyway, because that conscience of yours is not going to stand by while Attenborough does something wrong."

"And what if he does?" Veronica asked, already fearing that she wasn't going to like the answer.

"Then," the Colonel replied, his voice flat. "We're going to need you to kill him."

~ W ~

"So, Officer, you wanna explain to us what the US Army is doing being busy getting kidnapped by terrorists?"

"First of all," Veronica began. "It's _Sergeant_. None of that yes sir no sir bullshit. Secondly, I don't know who that man hanging from that branch is, but he sure as hell ain't one of mine. Thirdly, I don't think this is the work of terrorists, either."

Things had warmed up considerably between them, given that just a few minutes ago they had all been pointing guns at each other. Calvin had told her about their plan of getting as many people together. Veronica had scoffed. It was not that the concept did not appeal to her, but it appeared that Nick and Calvin had greatly underestimated the number of people playing the game.

"I told you," Nick said out of nowhere. "There's more to this, man. There's got to be a reason for all of this."

Calvin shot him a look, and Nick fell silent. "So tell us then, _Sergeant_," he said to Veronica. "You just going to leave us here? And I thought we were getting on so well together."

Veronica bit her lip. She felt bad abandoning them, but taking them along would only slow her down even further. But if Attenborough was really up to something, then having a few allies on her side would prove invaluable.

"You want answers, right?" Veronica said, standing up.

"That seems to be the general consensus."

"Then get behind me, and everything I tell you to do, you do it. You got that?"

"And where exactly are we rushing off to?"

"North," Veronica explained. "To find a man named Desmond Attenborough; and to get that bastard to tell us what's going on."


End file.
